Who Needs a Title

Thunderous palpitations upon benign sedaments, Miscreants vindicate with justice of six cents. A vociferous tyrannosaurus bursts sickly Sanitized wives and rodents scurry very Sedately towards dainty cliffs and heights Of unforeseeable depths-withered sights. A Persian rug is spread across garnered grounds Before touring gypsies which please sound. Great stories gather precariously on the head Of a pen sent from hapless flutters in bed- Sensations traverse a thing called a universe, Discoursing various travesties as a nurse. In gambits trained by substantial lapels And triumphant whores who cast spells Of priority towards declining propellers. But, you're right, titanically proportioned cells. Dwelling in tumultuous storms just to feel, To melt the ashes of memories, means to heal. Neglect the skeptic who's late for dinner Skinning prunes and my meat suit's a winner. Standard debasement sits beside youth Stinking of stale sex and sweat of a sleuth In the waiting room planning substantial Equations translating to aliens: We're still here...